And This is Just Losing
by The Pearl Maiden
Summary: In which Mycroft Holmes is not the embodiment of the British Government. He is a 18 year old boy in Panem dreading the reaping. Because Mycroft worries about...him. Constantly. Even if Sherlock's name has only been entered once. Crossover AU. Oneshot. No slash. (Title from "A Scandal in Belgravia" S2x01)


Disclaimer: I do not own "The Hunger Games" or BBC's "Sherlock."

* * *

I jerk awake as soon as the intruder touches me. Immediately, one hand is on his shoulder and my other fist pulled back to strike. My vision suddenly clears. I realize the "intruder" is my little brother.

Sherlock.

I withdraw my hand from his (too thin) shoulder and my fist relaxes as I bring it up to rub my face. I can feel a migraine working its way behind my eyes. I sigh (suppress a moan).

"_Yes_, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's bright blue eyes harden at my strained tone and I instantly feel a pang of guilt in my gut. Before I can fix my mistake (apologize), Sherlock's neutrally cool voice says,

"I brought you tea."

Which is Sherlock's way of saying, _"You were tossing around in your sleep and it was annoying."_

Rather than acknowledge the rather embarrassing truth, I feel my eyebrows ascend into my hairline. It clearly says,

"_You? My odd little brother, bringing me tea?"_

Sherlock shrugs.

Further comment being unnecessary, I take the proffered tea mug from his fingers. I bring the steaming cup to my lips (warm, bitter, comforting, _safe_) and catch Sherlock's look (mask) of annoyed amusement over the brim of it. He sits at the end of my cot in silence as I sip away.

Sherlock doesn't know it, but I'm drinking it as slowly as possible. Some selfish (childish, sentimental) part of me wants to stay (cherish) this moment. It's rare to see Sherlock in such a subdued and quiet manner and today, of all days, I want to sit back and watch my baby brother Sherlock. I want to see him here, at home, at peace, not standing in front of a slew of CCTV cameras as the Capitol thirsts for their next tribute (victim). I want to see him alive and breathing (because I'm terrified that he won't be if he's reaped).

_It won't—can't—be Sherlock. His name has only been entered once. _

Of course, Sherlock cannot possibly sit still for very long and he loathes being watched—"Scrutinized!"—by me, especially.

"It's reaping day."

Sherlock breaks the silence in the worst way possible and if I was in a fouler mood (more awake, less shocked), I'd probably scold him for his lack of tact. Again. He's punished enough, I think, by my involuntary flinch which happens before I can properly control it. His eyes find the floor and they cloud over in some... emotion I can't identify (Uncertainty? Guilt? Fear?). I cannot bear to see that. Not in Sherlock. I scoff at him instead.

"Don't be obvious, Sherlock."

I think I see a ghost of a smile on his pale features.

* * *

By noon, I'm dressed in one of my father's old, but well-made suits, and Mummy's helping a fidgeting (nervous) Sherlock with one of my neckties.

"It's too tight!"

Mummy promptly slaps away his interfering hand as she tries to redo it. Sherlock lasts 4.82 seconds before Mummy exclaims,

"Sherlock!"

"I'll do it, Mummy."

Sherlock scowls at my intervention, but I raise an eyebrow and Sherlock wisely (uncharacteristically) doesn't say anything. An exasperated Mummy is a difficult Mummy and Sherlock knows that as I much as I do.

When Mummy turns her back, I jerk on the tie hard.

"_She's worried."_ is my unspoken gesture.

Sherlock yelps as I tighten it further.

"_One in 2,145 names, Mycroft!"_

I finish looping through the necktie and Sherlock immediately backs from me, massaging his neck and glaring through his ice-blue irises. I sigh.

"She's already lost Father, Sherlock."

Sherlock doesn't reply, surprisingly. Usually, he'd outlive God trying to have the last word. I suspect it has something to do with my mention of our father. Siger Holmes and Sherlock were never close, even though the former did care for his wife and his sons, in his own way. Mummy hasn't been the same since father's death—a wet winter's bane, pneumonia—and her resulting mental instability has frightened a young Sherlock. Sherlock simply doesn't _do_ emotions. He doesn't even know how to handle his own much less rationalize them in others.

So when we leave our humble home with Mummy on my arm and Sherlock slightly ahead of us, I don't scold him for muttering an unintelligible curse (I can read his lips) when the peacekeepers take him to where the other twelve year old boys are kept. I escort my mother towards the huddling mass of anxious parents. Worry begins clawing its way into my gut.

During previous reapings, Mummy has always had Father's, or until more recently, Sherlock's hand to cling to during the drawing.

"_Yoohoo!_ Mycroft!"

But suddenly my fears settle into a more manageable knot and dear, lovely, Mrs. Hudson takes my frail mother's arm away from mine. She smiles genuinely and in it she says,

"_I'll take care of her. Good luck to you boys."_

I squeeze her hand thankfully and give my mother a quick peck on the cheek before she can register I'm leaving her side. I head toward the other (familiar) young men who are hoping to survive our final reaping.

God knows I am.

* * *

Our district's representative, Sally Donovan, is a sharply dressed woman with an equally sharp disposition. She's presented the tributes from our districts since Sherlock was a child and is well-known among us. Sherlock, of course, thinks she's an idiot.

"Anyone who finds pleasure in sticking her hand in glass bowls full of paper simply to have new faces to mutilate is an _idiot_, Mycroft."

That's something he would say in a good mood. It's people like Donovan that make me wary. Sherlock's not one for discretion and the things that come out of his mouth at times shock (terrify) me. And he wonders why I'm so "controlling."

I prefer the term "concerned."

The woman begins to speak and I immediately ignore her speech—the same drivel every year—about the Capitol and the Rebellion and the decision (they say "necessity") for the creation of the annual Hunger Games.

I risk glancing over at the younger boys and catch Sherlock's eye roll. He must sense my displeasure, because he makes sudden eye contact. I read his expression clearly.

_Bored._

I suppress an exasperated chuckle—heaven forbid I should encourage him—and instead try for what is (hopefully) a reprimanding scowl. Sherlock responds with a cheeky smirk. I'm about to mouth a rather unseemly word at him (Sherlock brings out the _best _in people) but Donovan's voice shifts my attention from my troublesome sibling.

"Ladies first."

An oppressive silence reigns as the woman's manicured fingers reach into the glass bowl. She chooses and withdraws a sliver of paper. She steps back to the podium and reads in a toneless voice.

"Anthea."

The unexpected lack of a last name causes me to wince—inwardly, of course. A young girl, probably seventeen or eighteen, steps away from the other (relieved) girls and makes her way to Donovan. It takes me a moment to realize that not one cry of protest or grief has escaped the crowd. Not even a murmur of pity. The answer to this is obvious, of course.

No one cares.

The districts know that caring is not advantage—it will not change who gets sent to the arena.

However, when I see the girl—Anthea—her straight, brown hair pulled back into a harsh bun at the nape of her neck, exposing her gaunt features...I feel oddly angry.

She is an outcast, by the lack of her family surname, her parents must have been suspected "traitors," thus the lack of empathy from the crowd.

Donovan is saying some congratulatory nonsense, but I focus on the brave, stoic girl, dressed in a cheap, poorly tailored dress. I can't help but admire her spirit. Her eyes, though there are traces of legitimate fear, are defiant. Somehow I feel her name being chosen isn't a coincidence. She is the daughter of rebels, no doubt long dead with their name erased and their daughter given a new label—the Capitol wants an example made. What better way than to murder her in front of the country in their games?

But suddenly Sally Donovan is moving toward the boy's bowl and my pulse elevates considerably. It's agonizing; Donovan seems to take an eternity (though I am sure no more than around eight seconds) to draw the name and walk back to the microphone. She opens the folded paper and...pauses.

Despite my state (distressed), I see a crease forming between the woman's eyebrows, as if the name on the paper irks her in a way she can't explain. The moment passes though and my gut knots so thoroughly I feel nauseated. Donovan swallows and pronounces the name with profound distaste.

"Sherlock Holmes."


End file.
